


Petrificus Totalus and Other Stories

by cridecoeur



Series: Lumos [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:04:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cridecoeur/pseuds/cridecoeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock scares the Dursleys and rescues Harry, Bellatrix is terrifying, and Sherlock gives things absurd names when he's 14.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrificus Totalus and Other Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bliblou](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Bliblou).



> What do you know, back to an obnoxious posting rate! Sorry guys, I have like, a moral opposition to keeping finished fic on my hard drive. They are done, I want them away from me. So I give them to you! Each of these stories has their own notes section, which are below. Two of them are serious, and one is decidedly not. Also, Sherlock is really difficult to write when he's being intimidating. Just putting that out there.

  
**Petrificus Totalus**   


**a/n:** This one is for Bliblou who wanted one of the gang rescuing Harry from the Dursleys - also making the Durselys shake in the metaphorical boots. This one is actually an AU of the AU, since Lily and James are actually alive in the _Lumos_ universe, but frankly, it needed to happen, so it did.

 

When Sherlock sees the cupboard Harry’s been kept in, the way Harry shies away from strangers, eyes overlarge, movements skittish, he gets a strange look on his face, one that John has never seen before, closed off and… something more subtle he can’t pick out. When they corner the Dursleys in the kitchen, the father, Vernon, is already an unattractive shade of red, apparently from the indignity of having wizards in his own home. Sherlock looks at Sirius, who simply nods at him.

Stepping forward, looming over Vernon, Sherlock looks… well, sometimes John forgets that Sherlock can be genuinely frightening when he wants to be, one more mask he can put on and take off with ease - Vernon’s sputtering cuts off, suddenly.

“Being that you clearly cannot understand anything more complex than the words on your cereal box,” Sherlock says, and Vernon goes apoplectically purple, and says, “Now see here, you - “ but Sherlock ignores him and continues with - “I am going to put this in very simple terms.” He reaches out and grips Vernon’s neck, suddenly, apparently hard enough that Vernon can’t pull away.

“This is the top of your spinal cord,” he says, “Altogether, it has 24 articulating vertebrae - ah, I see that was too large a word for you; I mean that they move - and 9 fused vertebrae. I could leave 32 of those vertebrae intact and still leave you ruined, if I took it in mind to break your neck. Anything above the T9 vertebrae would do.” He shifts his hand and digs his fingers in, apparently illustrating just which vertebrae he means.

“You would lose the ability to move or feel anything beneath your neck or to control your bladder or bowels,” he says. “It is possibly you would suffer intense, constant pain from the damage to nerves at the point of the break.” Sherlock smiles at him in a way than honestly even has John feeling a bit - well, not the fear that Vernon apparently feels but certainly intimidated. “I would be willing to put in the extra effort necessary to ensure that.” He shifts closer, as if to make his looming all that more pronounced, adding just that extra layer of discomfort.

“You would also lose all sexual function,” he says. “Not that you would be able to do anything about it if you retained it, but I imagine such a thing matters to someone as pig-headed as you are. You would never feel sexual pleasure, again.

“You would have very little chance of recovery,” he says, “In fact, I would go so far as to say you would have no chance of recovery. You would spend the rest of your days in a hospital bed, in constant pain, soiling yourself.

“Of course, it might just kill you,” he says, finally. “I haven’t had recent practice. I could very well make a mistake.”

Vernon is now very pale - apparently even he is impressed by Sherlock’s coldness, the look on his face that says not only does he not care about Vernon’s continued well-being, but that he would be happy to end it. “You wouldn’t - “ he tries, but Sherlock assure him that, “I am a high-functioning sociopath. I am well-assured that I have no conscience. Even if I did, I think I still would not regret it. And I am about to disappear into a world your police do not know exists. I will.”

Vernon gulps.

“Now,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps you would like to say something to Harry, before we leave. I imagine you cannot think of what, since you have the intelligence of a whelk - and I feel that I am insulting the whelk - so I would suggest an apology.”

Vernon looks at Harry, who’s hovering at the edge of the kitchen, even more wide-eyed than normal, which is really saying something. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then, when Sherlock tightens his hand further, “for the way we treated you.”

“Pitiful,” Sherlock says. “But likely all you’re capable of.”

Sherlock releases him and turns away, and Vernon sags down into a chair in relief, putting one hand to his neck, automatically.

Sherlock pauses as he passes Sirius, and Sirius nods again, with a look of grim satisfaction on his face. Sherlock moves on, until he reaches Harry. He kneels down in front of him. "We're going to take you away, now, Harry," he says, then gestures back at Sirius and Remus. "These men were friends of your parents. Sirius is your godfather of which I’m sure these people have neglected to inform you. I feel confident in saying he will take far better care of you than these people have. He has loved you even when he could not see you. And he has wanted to see you very badly. We are all sorry it has taken so long to find you.”

Sirius steps forward. "Your dad was my best mate," he says, voice rough, “He wanted me to take care of you.” Harry peers up at him for a moment, looks at the Dursleys, and then back at him, and apparently makes a decision. He steps forward and reaches for Sirius' hand, taking it in his own, much smaller hand.

"Okay," he says. "I'm ready to go."

Sirius smiles and leads Harry out. Sherlock looks back at the Dursleys and says, as a parting gift. "I would reconsider the way you act in the future. I may very well change my mind about leaving you whole," and then he turns and walks out, John and Remus following. John glances back once and sees the Dursleys all pale and wide-eyed, clear victims of what John is willing to bet was not pure Thespianism.

When John gets out the front door, he whistles, low. "You had them bloody shaking," he says.

Sirius gives one of his wide, reckless smiles. "He's a lot better at that than I am," he says. “If I want to scare people, I use my wand. Regulus doesn't need one."

"I'm touched," Sherlock says - the thing of it is, John thinks he actually might be. As Mycroft once put it he does love to be dramatic - he also loves having an audience that appreciates his particular brand of drama, his capabilities, though he’d deny it, vociferously.

“Come on,” Sirius says and bends down to pick Harry up; he gets a look like he’s about to go back into the house, when Harry visibly flinches. Remus sets one hand on his arm, and Sirius shakes his head, then says. “Dumbledore’s going to be right pissed. Might as well get that part over with.”

“As always,” Sherlock says, “I tremble in fear.” He looks about himself than picks up one of two trainers someone has kicked off at the door. He takes out his wand and casts a spell in defiance of the Statute of Secrecy. Not that he seems to have much respect for it, in general. Or most other things people try to make him do.

“Come, now, hands on.” Sherlock says, holding it out. John’s at least traveled by Portkey before, so he knows what to do. They all squeeze a touch on. “You, too, Harry,” Sherlock says. Harry wrinkles his nose and hesitates for a moment, but does what he’d told.

John gets one last look at the Dursley’s house, in which the Dursley’s are cowering, probably a lot more scared of wizards - or, at least, or Sherlock - than they were before; then the Portkey kicks in and they disappear, headed back to a world with people who will treat Harry far better than anything he’s known before.

 

  
**Protego**   


**a/n:** This one actually needs an author's note. I have taken liberties with the wizarding world in this one, especially the way magic works. I've always thought that when a wizard loses control of their emotions, their magic should hit an extreme end as well - that's how I wrote it when I wrote HP, and I picked it back up again, here. Also, I went back through the fighting between bad/good guys in the books, and could not find a single instance where a good guy uses Avada Kedavra to kill, so I've taken that to mean it's still an Unforgiveable when a good guy uses it even when it's against a really baddie. Also, I figure Sherlock would be in even more trouble for using it, since he's a former Death Eater and also thought that they might check his wand when people end up dead around him for that reason. Maybe none of that is true but BASICALLY I JUST WANTED THIS TO HAPPEN SO I CREATED CIRCUMSTANCES FOR IT TO WORK. Also, warnings for Bellatrix and the things she does.

 

John has heard of people going mad under the influence of the Cruciatus curse, under the press of prolonged torture - irreparably mad, wasting away in St. Mungo’s under the practiced care of well-meaning Healers who, nonetheless, can do nothing for them. He’d understood it was an Unforgivable for very good reason; he still hadn’t really understood what that meant, though, how terrible it really was, until he’d undergone it.

Now Bellatrix is standing over him eyes bright, alive, and utterly mad - she is the sort of Death Eater that Sherlock could never have been, no matter how strongly he clings to the title of sociopath. She revels in inflicting deep, unbearable pain on another; she enjoys it. John has already shouted himself hoarse; he’s shaking, and there are tear tracks down his cheeks that he’s not proud of but can’t help.

Bellatrix raises her wand again, and John braces himself - though it won’t help, nothing ever would - when the door to the room slams open, and John looks up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway. Sherlock looks from Bellatrix to John and back, and there is a cold fury in his eyes John has never seen before. The emotion utterly transforms him; he looks like some sort of avenging angel, about to bring down God’s wrath on the unrighteous.

Bellatrix turns toward him and coos, “Oh Reggie, you’ve finally come. Your friend and I were having so much fun,” which is the point at which Sherlock starts glowing. John has no idea what that means, but it can’t possibly be good for Bellatrix. All John can think, still shaking, breath coming ragged, is thank fucking God.

Bellatrix hisses, and Sherlock does not so much cast a spell as he does explode with it, the room full up of silver and gold, flashing lights like stars going supernova, swirling. The room tilts sickening to one side, and the only thing that keep John in place is the magical bindings Bellatrix has cast on him - Bellatrix who screams, and then goes silent. When the room tilts back into place again, and the light recedes, Sherlock is standing over her, where she’s sprawled on the ground, pointing his wand down at her.

He says two words John knows would see him to Azkaban.

The room lights up green. Bellatrix goes limp - John doesn’t have to inspect her to know she’s dead.

Sherlock walks over to him, unsteadily, and slices the magical bindings off him with his wand. Before he can do anything else, John levers himself up and walks over to where Bellatrix had discarded his gun, as if it were useless, a mere toy. He walks back over to her, to where she laid out lifeless on the ground, cocks the hammer, and shoots her twice, in the chest.

“What do you know,” he says. “That worked, again.”

Sherlock watches him for a moment, seemingly overcome by very strong and conflicting emotions, before he says. “So it would appear.”

“Good thing,” John says. “Or you might have done something Unforgivable.”

At that, Sherlock breathes out, raggedly, and staggers over to him, each movement more unsteady than the last; John doesn’t have to ask to know he gave too much, that he drastically overextended himself. He takes John face between his hands, pulling him close, until their foreheads are resting together.

“It appears you’ve continued the trend of saving my life,” Sherlock says.

“Yeah, well, you did pretty well, yourself,” John says. “But right now you should probably sit down.”

“Actually,” Sherlock says, “I think I am about to faint.”

“Don’t worry,” John says. “I won’t hold it against you,” and takes Sherlock’s weight as he goes limp, guiding him gently to the ground.

 

Snuffles

 **a/n:** Here's a palate cleanser for you. More crack! Also, no I could not think of a spell to title this with, so I just went with the obvious. It is my head canon that Regulus unknowingly gave Sirius the name Snuffles when he was knocking about as Padfoot. So I rolled with it, here. Also, the idea for this was originally spawned by a Sherlock flashfic prompt, but lets be honest, I love everything Speranza does, and I don't want to put this nonsense on her community.

 

“Snuffles,” John says, “Really?”

“I didn’t know it was him,” Sherlock says, insistently.

“Yes, but I mean,” John says, “ _Snuffles_. You named a dog _Snuffles_.”

Sherlock is glaring at him as if he’s reconsidering his promise to never use his wand on John without permission - which John had extracted from Sherlock about 15 minutes after learning what his wand actually did because he knew just how fond Sherlock was of experimenting on others, and he had no desire to wake up an aardvark or something equally absurd.

“I was fourteen,” Sherlock says.

“I wasn’t naming anything Snuffles when I was fourteen,” John says. “Not even when I was four.”

“You did not realize you were attracted to men until you were nearly thirty,” Sherlock said. “And then only after I deduced it.”

“That’s a low blow,” John says.

Sirius laughs, suddenly, and John turns toward him, having half forgotten he was there, despite the fact that he’d started the whole absurd conversation. He’s leaning back against a wall, newly not-a-dog, watching their back and forth as if it were a particularly good tennis or, well, Quidditch match.

“That’s pretty thick, mate,” he says.

“Mother once found you wearing women’s underwear,” Sherlock says - likely because he seems to think he’s the only one who can question John’s intelligence, and he always feels the need to humiliate anyone else who tries. “Comparatively, I think you should feel far more embarrassed.”

Sirius scowls. “Not on, Regulus,” he says.

“To be fair, you’ve done that, too,” John says because Sirius may have called him thick, but Sherlock started it - Sherlock gives him a deeply betrayed look.

“That was for a case,” Sherlock says.

“No,” John says. “The dress was for a case. The underwear was something else entirely.”

“If I had been required to undress - “ Sherlock says.

“If you took the dress off, they’d have known you weren’t a woman, anyways,” John says.

Sirius snickers. Sherlock glares at him. “I hope you are run over, the next time you chase a car,” he says.

“Yes,” John says. “ _Snuffles_.”


End file.
